


The Death of Molly Brown

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Short, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I bet you don't think I'm much of an optimist, do you, John?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Molly Brown

“Sherlock?”

“I am exhausted, John.”

Blood hits the carpet, sinking in and spreading out. It will stain, tomorrow.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The clock ticks, loudly and obtrusively. John has never given much thought to the inner workings of a clock, but he does now. He considers the cogs, the perfect way they click and slide together, pulling time forward jarringly day by day. He considers how they sometimes seem to slow, even freeze. How the tick of a second can last just that bit longer, echo just that bit louder.

“I’m calling it a day.”

That’s an understatement. Calling it a day, clocking out, giving up. That’s what you do when the clock hits five and it’s time to head home. That’s not – no. It’s not _this_. John says as much, or at least he tries to, and Sherlock’s shoulders seems to jerk in a facsimile of a laugh in response.

A sharp sliver of silver hits the carpet, falling into what is now a pool of blood. The doctor steps forward as the soldier pulls back.

“I bet you don’t think I’m much of an optimist, do you, John?”

He doesn’t, not really. Not now.

“I bet you see me as some sort of grim pessimist, seeing the worst in everything. Everywhere I go there is murder, violence, ruination, the whole works. Everywhere I go negativity creeps in from the corners of the room. Were you an optimist before you met me? Were you? Are you still?”

Sherlock isn’t making much sense but John’s not too worried about that right now. The dripping of the blood, the ticking of the clock, the sound of the bath straining against overflowing hot water in the other room; these are the things John’s worried about right now.

“I’m actually the most optimistic person around – every day I watch the sun rise and I feel a little glimmer of optimism. I see people hand in hand and I imagine marriages not murders, I see rain and I imagine plants growing not puddles overflowing. It’s pathetic. Every day the sun sets on an increasingly horrendously long series of sorrowful days and every day I imagine the sun will rise on the first good day. I’m such an optimist, John, that I believe in tomorrow. How – how – it’s _idiotic_.”

Blood starts to dry and crack on Sherlock’s face where he has rubbed it during his short but stuttered speech. The clock freezes and John takes a step forward just as the detective falls backwards a pace. John finds himself with an armful of limp flatmate as the hour chimes.

“Shi – Sherlock? Sherlock I need you to keep your eyes open for me. Can you do that? Sherlock?”

Blue-green eyes flutter slightly and the detective smiles, punch-drunk. “Maybe tomorrow will be better,” he suggests grimly as the blood from his wrists finally starts to congeal.

Tomorrow there will be stiches, or he will be dead.


End file.
